Public Service Announcement #5279

If you are going to invest time (and white shoe polish) to create a tribute for a deceased person, PLEASE (please) spell things correctly!!!!

Ok, so maybe the subject of the tribute doesn't care about spelling, but I(and it's all about me, you know) the rest of us do!!! Maybe it's the English teacher in me, but I could do little more than cringe in horror as we came upon this car Saturday afternoon.

Proudly, lovingly written across the rear window were the words "In menory of Michel Jackson."

Yes -- in "menory" of "Michel."

Before you ask, no, the misspelling wasn't a "one time deal." Each time Michael's name was written across a window it was spelled "Michel." I'm really not sure how you make this mistake -- his name has been in the public spotlight for nearly forty years and it, certainly, has been all over the internet and the television this weekend.

Seriously! HOW do you mess up Michael Jackson's name?

"Menory" only appeared once, but I'm convinced it would have been misspelled had it been used again.

(don't EVEN get me started on how one gets MEMORY wrong! M and N aren't so similar that you can exchange them for one another)

Sigh.

The driver? She was a young woman, probably in her early 20s, with quite the impressive collection of small stuffed animals across her front dash.

Oh, well . . . R.I.P. Michel.

It's the sentiment that counts, right?

PSF: The Technical Side of Growing Up

It seems as though entering the "Terrible 2s" means more than temper tantrums and melt-downs. All of the sudden, the Little Lady's mantra is "BY MYSELF!!!" Heaven forbid Mommy or Daddy attempt to do anything for her (although, we are still allowed to hold her; in fact . . . it is EXPECTED!).

Dressing herself is one of her daily activities and goals. Poor thing -- she can put a pair of shoes on (albeit on the wrong feet) and she put on her pants/shorts (though, they are usually inside out and backwards). The ability to put on a shirt, however, alludes her.

She tries and tries and tries, but the result is always the same



She tries putting shirts on over her head . . . but her arms never seem to end up in the right places.

She tries putting them on by stepping into them . . . but a shirt will only go up so far when your legs are in the arm holes.

Eventually, when she finally realizes that her attempts only end with incapacitation, does she turn to Mommy or Daddy for help.

I guess we are still good for something.

Photo-Story Friday is hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek;
click on the icon below to visit more PSFs!

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I'm Claiming a New Boyfriend

I don't know his name yet, but I am I.N. L.O.V.E. with him.

To me, he is a prince, a knight in shining armor, my savior and every other over-used cliched. He is "Da Man."

Sorry, Hubby, but I just can't keep my thoughts off of this other man, but I think -- if I explain everything -- you will understand.

(Hopefully)

Truthfully, my new man has satisfied me in ways that my husband simply has NOT been able to achieve. He has quenched a fire that burned within me -- a fire that has been distracting me from the joys of life: eating, sitting quietly and listening to rain . . . holding my daughter on the couch.

I feel like a new woman.

And, it's all because of this man . . . this unnamed man.

I wish I knew the name of this shadowy figure. I wish I knew a lot about him, but I only know one thing.

He invented this:



Oh, you hot, HOT scientist of years past! If you only knew what your simple little tablets of sodium bicarbonate have done for me! For weeks, I've spent sleepless nights -- tossing, turning, and sighing -- desperately trying to find a position that would ease the horrible burning sensation rushing through my esophagus.

TODAY, I found relief in a little, unassuming bottle on aisle 19 of my grocery store.

Oh, Prince TUMS . . . if you weren't probably old (and possibly dead), I would SOOOOOOOO plant one on you right now!

PSF - My Dear, Sweet Husband . . .

It's time we had a talk.

A serious talk.

The kind of talk where you don't crack any jokes, raise your eyebrows, or allow yourself to be distracted by the TV.

Yes -- a serious talk.

First of all, I appreciate your dedication to maintaining the external appearance of our home. Your watering, pruning, and mowing efforts have paid off -- both the front and back yard look beautiful. And, I appreciate your dedication to eradicating the Mole Jungle that has been built beneath the back yard terrain. I know they are driving you nuts and I'm glad that you are so willing to spend time, energy, and money to remove them.

But . . . um . . . well . . .

The baby's room DEFINITELY needs to move up on your personal to-do list.

Have you SEEN the state it is currently in? Have you seen the boxes that have been packed, the trash that has been bagged, and the general chaos that has taken over this room?

Have you SEEN it?

Surely you have. I've deliberately left the door open, allowing stacked boxes, furniture, and nursery decorations to spill out into the hallway. You walk RIGHT BY everything each morning, evening, and night as you enter or leave our room.

I know that it is much more fun to play Rambo in the Mole Jungle -- adrenaline rushing as you place sonar traps into the ground. You're so fierce.

But -- your son needs a place to sleep. You know that we have less than EIGHT WEEKS till I'm full-term, right? Eight weeks. Two months. July and August.

Can you tell I'm just a wee bit anxious about having the nursery completed?

With the Little Lady, I handled the room renovation/decoration myself. I could do it -- I wasn't big, bulky, and pregnant.

In case you haven't noticed, this is most definitely NOT the case this time around.

I need your muscles, honey. And, your ability to breathe normally. And, your abdominal muscles -- you know, the ones that don't feel as though they are being torn in half every time you bend over.

Basically, I need your body.

(Does that appeal to your masculinity? Does this help my cause?)

I know that nesting isn't your thing. Not at all. It is, however, MY thing, and since I'm the one that allows you to

share MY bed (I'm pregnant, remember). . .
share MY meals (I'm pregnant, remember) . . .
and share MY tv (I'm pregnant, remember). . .

I think you should get on the nesting bandwagon.

I promise I won't make you do anything girly. You can still be Rambo, bravely delving into the dangerous jungle of boxes, crates, and furniture. I'll even make you a headband like his, if that will help. You'll be "THE MAN."

I'll even call you "The Man." I promise.

So -- you think you can head upstairs now?

P.S.

If you're still not sufficiently motivated, here's an "in living color" shot . . .



Ready now?






Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Semi Wordless Wednesday

What happens . . . .

When your Toddler has a birthday . . .

Gets excited about opening presents . . .

Eats more hot dogs than she has ever eaten in her life . . .

And eats a TON of frosting (not cake -- just frosting) . . .

She FINALLY understands the meaning of saying "CHEESE" for a picture.

Can We Talk About Stretch Marks?

Alright -- so. Sigh.

When I discovered that God had decided to let my body work and I was pregnant, I knew that I would "grow" with the baby. Visions of a cute little baby bump and fuller cleavage (always a plus) danced before my eyes. I saw pictures of pregnant models and actresses, all beautifully thin and pregnant, and KNEW that's what I would look like.

(I imagine there are quite a few of you shaking your heads and chuckling right about now, aren't you?)

I didn't realize that models and actresses are from another planet. . . cute little baby bumps on a thin body are a myth for most women . . and fuller cleavage comes with a price.

Yeah, my boobs and belly have grown.

So has my hips . . .

My face . . .

My butt . . .

My feet . . .

My thighs . . .

Let's put it this way -- pretty much EVERYTHING, with the exception of my elbows, have expanded exponentially. And, I'm sure it won't be long before my elbows start gaining weight and I'll have to invest in some type of contraption to lift my weighty elbows and arms for me.

Sigh (again).

Under duress of extra, quickly gained weight, my skin has mounted a protest. Stretch marks have started popping up at an alarming rate. And. They. Are. EVERYWHERE!!! (well, except for my skinny elbows . . . but it's only a matter of time)

Of course, they aren't petite, cute, little pale marks -- OH, NO! They are deep, wide, red, and they seem to resent following any set pattern. There are vertical ones . . . horizontal . . . diagonal . . . even a few that seem to be making a series of crop circles around my belly button (which, incidentally, is starting to loose its "innie" status).

I look like some new breed of exotic tiger.

(Like how I threw in the word "Exotic?" Did it help make my stripes seem sexier? No? Darn.)

I've applied lotions and oil since the day I learned my body had created a baby. I've downed gallons of water, trying to keep my skin hydrated.

Money down the drain.

I guess, if nothing else, I have something else to mention to Baby Boy. You know -- like the "Nipple Conversation" -- a fact that I can bring up the first time he is rude to me in front of his friends.

Oh, yeah -- I'm looking forward to that!

(28 Weeks)

(Oh, and yeah -- I now have to bend over AND lift up my shirt to see the Little Lady. Sigh.)

Someone Has A Birthday Today!

Happy 2nd Birthday, Little Lady!

The Embarrassing Side of Toddler Education

Ahh, Little Lady.

From the time we brought her home from the hospital, my husband and I have been on a constant teaching journey.

"That's grass. See -- it's green!"

"This is your cup. CUP. Can you say cup?"

"Oooo -- do you see the rain? It's making our grass grow."

Yeah, I know -- really exciting and stimulating conversations going on in our house.

Of course, a good deal of the Little Lady's education has centered around body parts.

"Where's your nose?"

"I see your hair. Can you find Mommy's hair?"

"Look at your fingers! They're just like Mommy's fingers!"

The phrase "they're just like Mommy's" gets used a lot. I don't know why -- it's just something I've always said, trying to show her the similarities between us.

I didn't know that simple phrase would backfire on me.

There is one set of body parts that I didn't deliberately set out to teach my daughter. Maybe I'm a prude . . . maybe I was just worried about her talking about these specific body parts in public . . . I don't know. I just didn't really bring them up.

Until, that is, I got pregnant.

I'm talking about . . . .

(whispers) "BOOBIES!"

Yeah, pregnancy completely changed my silence on the issues of boobies. Why? Why would growing another human suddenly make me very vocal about boobies? (good grief, I'm throwing that word around a lot, aren't I?)

The answer is simple -- I had to teach the Little Lady that Boobies are NOT grappling hooks. Boobies are NOT handles. Boobies are NOT bean bags that one can just plop down on. Boobies are NOT meant to be kicked when one is cuddling with Mommy on the couch.

"No! Don't touch Mommy's boobies. That hurts Mommy," became a very familiar set of sentences around the house. Even Daddy got into "teacher mode" after witnessing one too many incidents of the Little Lady leaving breathless in pain.

"No, no -- you've got to be nice to Mommy's Boobies."

(sigh -- seriously! THIS is what's been going on for seven months)

I swear, now that they are known to be off-limits, she is more fascinated with them. The Little Lady points them out to me all the time, patting or poking my chest and proudly exclaiming, "BOOBIES." I guess she wants to make sure I know that I have them -- you know, 'cause I might forget about them.

And, of course, she recently had a startling revelation -- a moment of putting "two and two" together. (no pun intended)

It happened a few weeks ago, while we were visiting my sister, Sarah. Auntie "Sa-wuh" was changing the Little Lady into her pajamas, trying to figure out the complicated world of onesies. The onesie proved a little difficult, so Auntie Sa-wuh pulled it off of the Little Lady in order to start all over.

Recognizing a chance at having a bit of freedom, the Little Lady ran off, laughing and screaming with delight at the fact she'd gotten away.

Suddenly -- she stopped dead in her tracks and looked down at her bare chest.

"Ohhhhhhh!"

Sarah and I both looked at her, puzzled.

The Little Lady pointed an index finger at side of her chest, excitedly again saying, "Oooooooo!"

Then, proudly, she turned to us, fingers still pointing to her chest.

"Yook!" BOOBIES! JUST YIKE MOMMIES!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Auntie Sa-wuh found this exclamation HILARIOUS. Mommy? Well, Mommy was just extremely, EXTREMELY thankful we were not in public.

Random Thoughts from the Crazy Lady

This past week . . . I was INSANE! Seriously, between the stress of the Little Lady's hospitalization, being pregnant, not sleeping, not eating well, and just being hormonal, it's a wonder I didn't kill someone.

Here's just a snippet of the hullabaloo from my head:

"I will drop kick anyone that attempts to console me right now."
(Immediately after handing the Little Lady to the OR staff)


"I'm not hungry . . . no, I am hungry. . . no -- I don't want to eat. Oh, my God, where is the food?"
(waiting, in the hospital food court, for the surgery to end)


"Kid, you better BACK OFF!"
(the "mean me" . . .in the waiting room . . . mentally directed to some poor (albeit) annoying child)


"She's so little!"
(seeing the Little Lady for the first time in the recovery room)


"Baby Boy, you'd better stop kicking my bladder . . . now is NOT the time!"
(in recovery, desperately needing to go to the bathroom but not wanting to leave my little girl)


"Holy CRAP -- where is that nurse?"
(in our room, every night when the IV alarms would go off for no reason WHATSOEVER!)


"So help me, if she pokes her one more time . . . ."
(holding the Little Lady, watching the Lab Tech try get blood from the Little Lady's fingers)


"Why do people have to freakin' SNORE?"
(this flashed through my mind every single night . . . and, no, I'm not naming names (yet))


"Please, God, why does this have to be so rough for her?"
(watching and holding my Little Lady as she screamed and writhed in pain for 30 minutes)


"Yeah, you're cute, Doc. . . but that doesn't mean you can just waltz in our room at 7 am. Dear, Lord, I hope I wasn't all sprawled out asleep in some funky position. Crap -- was my mouth open?"
(Thursday, 7 am, as the Little Lady's doctor came in for an update)


"Awwwwww."
(watching the Little Lady asleep on my belly, while she was blissfully unaware that her baby brother was kicking her face over and over and over)


"What, am I the ONLY woman in Houston who owns a MIRROR?"
(first excursion on "the outside;" a trip to the grocery store . . . and my petty, internal response to the VERY ill-fitting hoochie outfits I saw on every aisle)


Mmmmmm . . . . pregnant, stressed out me, is very, very, VERY violent! I'm a little scared of myself right now!

Poop & Blood Are All You Need In Life

Who knew? If you want to get out of the hospital, you just need enough blood in you and enough poop out of you.

That's it.

WE ARE HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Little Lady's blood transfusion worked WONDERS on her. We saw improvement about halfway through the four hour process; she instantly became a different child -- teasing her Daddy, talking to her visitors, stealing french fries, and even throwing out a few dance moves.

It feels a bit like an understatement but it was wonderful to see.

The rest of the night, however, wasn't quite so lovely. She had enough blood in her body, but now there was the issue of having a bit too much "poo-poo" built up . . . nearly 6 days worth.

Oy ve.

The poor thing didn't fall asleep until nearly 4:00 am, only to keep waking every 45 minutes from the pain. At 7:00 am this morning, three of her doctors showed up to tell us that unless the new labs showed her hemoglobin count to be up . . . AND she had a bowel movement . . . we should NOT anticipate going home today.

"Well, crap, " was my first thought.

Out came a lovely selection of laxatives and suppositories, all administered by our sweet nurse. That's right --Mommy didn't have to be "The One" handling the suppository duties; there are some bright moments when one is in the hospital. Of course, like with every other procedure, I was the one to hold her.

Oh, my goodness -- holding your child through suppositories, transfusions, blood draws, and IV attempts SUCKS.

(I'm sure, if given time, I could come up with a more tasteful way to say that. . . .but, right now, I really don't care. Being hormonal and emotional, with only 12 hours of sleep over the course of a week, leaves one not really caring if one is crass or not. My apologies if anyone are offended (Mom).)

Fortunately, the new blood work revealed that the Little Lady's count had reached the ideal, normal level.

Now . . . it was just a matter of "Da Poo."

I'll spare you the details -- but, for the Little Lady, it was excruciating and a many-hour process. The End Result (ha ha) was that the Little Lady was given permission to leave Texas Childrens Hospital.

She is still incredibly tired, bruised from her catheter and stint, and struggling to use her healing stomach muscles, but she is home and, overwhelmingly, happy to be here.

Mommy is, also, just a wee bit happy to be home.

Thank you so much for all of the comments that have been left this week -- it was so encouraging to read that people (some I know and some I've never met) were thinking and praying for us.

Of course, OF COURSE, coming home wasn't the most relaxing thing since (1) my husband is now convinced he has Mumps (thanks to learning Friday that we were all exposed to it while in recovery) and (2) the first thing I managed to do at home was to dump 3 weeks worth of rabbit poo all over my feet.

Yeah -- OF COURSE that happened at the END of the most stressful week ever.

Why does the phrase " Blood Transfusion" Make You Panic?

Yep -- Blood Transfusion time.

Oh yeah, and we're still in the hospital.

Do I really need to say more? This has been an awful week -- especially for my poor, sad Little Lady. She seemed to do well the first day post-op; after some sleep and pain medicine, she was interactive for the first time and eating.

Things took a turn yesterday; the Little Lady began to refuse food and drink, and she became quite lethargic, barely speaking. Heck, she hardly had the energy to hold her own sippy cup or remove her pacifier from her mouth. We started receiving the question, "Is she always this pale;" we answered each time jokingly, as she is a pale one like her mama (seriously, I'm really, really, REALLY pasty).

We had no idea that the pale question was serious.

Lab work was ordered this morning and the results weren't what we'd imagined. Her blood count was fairly low, requiring a second blood draw a few hours later. The second blood draw showed that the Little Lady's hemoglobin had dropped a bit more.

That's when I was told the doctor might order a transfusion.

WHAT?????

I tried to break down in tears once the nurse left, but a crying mama freaks out a Little Lady So, quickly and completely, I had to "suck it up," as the phrase goes.

Now, we're here in the room -- a sleepy, pathetic yearling resting on her Daddy's chest and a drained mama with mascara stained cheeks -- both wearily watching our sweet nurse detach the potassium drip and hook up the bag boldly labeled "O Rh POSITIVE."



If tomorrow's labs show a better hemoglobin count, we are "supposed" to be released.

You don't know how badly I'm hoping that actually happens.

Surgery Updates and Sad Pictures

Sigh. What a day and what a night.

The Little Lady's surgery went as well as anticipated, despite all of Mommy's nerves, tears, and worries.

Actually, I held it together fairly well during the "before time," the "waiting around time" . . . which lasted longer than expected since her surgery started late.

(the Little Lady, via Daddy's camera phone, waiting in her surgery attire)

Yep, I did fairly well, until the Anesthesiologist took her from me. The Little Lady looked back at me and, in her little squeaky voice, asked "Where Mommy Go?"

That's when I lost it and the desk staff scrambled to grab boxes and boxes of tissues for me.

Two and a half hours later, we received the notice that her surgery was over -- after some time spent with her doctor going over some details, we were allowed to visit her in recovery. WOW -- I had NO IDEA how tough the recovery time would be. She was scared and cranky, trying to come out from the effects of anesthesia, and her poor throat was all scratched from her tube.

That was definitely the saddest I've ever seen the Little Lady.

We were in the Recovery Center for several hours -- again, longer than we (or the nurses) expected. There were a series of events that kept us from moving to our room, one of which involved some lab work that just wouldn't go right.

Finally, after 8pm, we were taken to her room. The rest of the night was pretty active -- nurses and assistants in and out every hour or so. The Little Lady had a hard time with the pain and wasn't able to tolerate liquids . . . which brought about some "learning time." She now knows the all important phrase "I Throw Up."

(Daddy took over as The Little Lady's Bed Buddy around 5 am, allowing me a chance to stretch out on the pull-out bed.)

This morning, things have gone a little better; the anti-nausea medicine and the morphine have worked wonders. We saw our first smile just a little bit ago and heard our first full sentences in 24 hours. She was able to tolerate a little bit of beef "zoop" (that she excitedly said she "yikes") and drank a bit of Gatorade.

Now, the medicine has begun to make her drowsy, giving her the chance for some much needed rest.




We'll have a better idea this evening, after her doctor checks her again, whether or not she'll be released tomorrow morning.

Thank you so, so, so, so much for all of your prayers, thoughts, and encouragement!!!!

Wide Awake and Anxious. Great Combo.

5:30 am -- Little Boy, via a few shark jabs, pokes, and a few long head rolls, informed me that I had waited ENTIRELY too long for another bathroom break. 'Cause, you know, it's all about HIS comfort . . . never mind the fact that Mama would prefer sleep to a bathroom visit!

Of course, if he hadn't woken me up, I would have soon been wide awake thanks to his sister.

Today is Surgery Day for the Little Lady.

Over the past two years, we've been dealing with UTI's and Bladder Infections thanks to a congenital condition known as Bladder Reflux. Daily antibiotics keep most infections at bay but not all. In addition, she has annual testing to monitor the reflux. This required testing is the more traumatic (for all of us) part of this condition -- ultrasounds, catheters, and x-rays are all a part of testing day.

The last round of testing, about a month ago, was the worst yet. Not only did it show that her reflux was worse than previously thought, but this time she was old enough to be more aware of what was going on . . . .but not old enough to understand why her Daddy (the only one who could go in with her) wasn't making this scary and painful experience stop.

It. Was. Awful.

But, if all goes well, today's surgery will eliminate the need for yearly testing and daily antibiotics.

I'm excited about that part, but I'm incredibly worried about the fact my little, tiny girl will be in surgery . . . for two hours. And, she'll be in the hospital anywhere from two to five days.

I know this isn't a life-threatening procedure. I know that we are at the best children's hospital in the area, and that we have the best doctor and surgeon for this type of pediatric procedure.

And, I know that God already has her in his protective hands.

But, I'm still worried. :(

Please keep my Little Lady in your thoughts and prayers today. Her surgery is at 1:30 pm (central time). And, if you don't mind, keep her father and me in your prayers as well. She doesn't know what's going on, but we do . . . and we can't help but worry.